When she landed it was with a wet thumping noise, like a heartbeat,the wall behind her shook, and rattled the photographs. His fatherstared back at him with his head cocked in the crooked frame. For a moment he sat there, unsure of what to do next. Mother didn’tmove. She was completely still, he couldn’t even see if she wasbreathing. For a moment that scared him, but he realized that he hadno other choice. “Ahh!” He cried and reached for the twin fountains of blood onhis body, the blood was soaking the shirt and dripping onto thefloor, grouping up on the edges and dripping down. It looked like aperverted rain shower. He looked at the hallway around him, and saw Mother’s room. <I>Trisha.</I>Another look down the stairs confirmed that Mother had not moved. Theknife was on the ground, two steps below him, spotted with blood—hisblood. Tom turned towards Mothers room, and realized that he couldn’tstand. He had to crawl if he was going to get anywhere. Painfully he leaned over until he fell onto his chest and belly, andbegan to carefully pull himself along with his arm, each onescreaming at him to stop, begging with him, pleading with him to justmake it stop, oh please make it stop. Blood smeared in streams behind him, leaving sickly pink and crimsonmarks on the white carpet. He wished he could have ignored it, but hecouldn’t. The room was open, which was blessing number one. His shoulders tried to lock up but he ignored them. He had to keepmoving. He did his best to keep his legs moving, providing someforward momentum, but they were so weak…so very weak.
Blood, so much blood. The pain rattled in his head, as if someone were shaking him. Hiseyes felt buried under a layer of sand. His vision was blurring andhe wasn’t sure if he was actually moving or just thinking that hewas. His arms screamed. Blood. —<I>Like your father!</I> Please oh please stop. <I>Trisha…gotto get her out. Got to get her out. </I>His legs were like jelly. The pain. —<I>This is hurting me…</I>—…<I>a lot more than it’s hurting you. </I>He had to get to Trisha, the carpet pulled at his clothes, sucking uphis blood hungrily like a beast, tasting him like a……beast. The pain. Blood.<I>Oh myaching head. </I>He looked up. The closet was in front of him already, he didn’tknow how he got there, but it didn’t matter. He was there. That wasall that mattered, he was in Mother’s room, and he had made it tothe closet.A weak arm reached up, he grabbed the doorknob, slowly, with all thathe had left, and he twisted it and pulled the door open. It was allhe could do not to weep when he finally had it all the way open. Hesaw the light was off, but it was clear what was there, she was justas he had last seen her.
<I>Trisha, oh, my love</I>, he thought he said. She looked down at him with tears, of joy, sadness or both he wasn’tsure. He couldn’t think. It was impossible to think anymore. The pain. He pulled himself up to his knees by leaning against the doorframe.His aching body settled into an agonizing pile as blood poured frominside of him. He felt a cool tingle on the back of his neck that wasslowly spreading down his entire spine. That same slithering chill,only different, this was a numb chill—it felt good.Trisha looked at him with her dirty, bloody face. She still lookedbeautiful. Like an angel. Blood. He tried a smile, and felt the goofiness of it on his face in hiscondition. He couldn’t help it though. “Found you.” He said. Her eyes grew wide and he moved towards her, not knowing how he wasgoing to get her loose, but knowing that he had to. He reached for the duct tape, carefully grabbed the edges and beganto peel it back. “Shh…” He whispered. “Sorry…I’m sorry.”The duct tape was pulling against her skin, and leaving behind it ared rash. He finally finished removing it and she took a huge breathof air and looked sighed. “Trisha.” He struggled to form the word correctly, for somereason it was having a problem making it through his mind. Everything around him was going dark. “Look out!” She suddenly screamed. Tom looked behind him and saw a hand reaching forward, a bent, bloodyhand, several fingers hanging limply in unnatural directions.
<I>Ohplease no, please oh please oh please. </I>The other hand appeared, struggling like the other one; it was almostcompletely limp though, unlike the other one. They pulled forward, carefully sliding toward them. A face appeared, Mother’s at one time, but this time it was theface of a demon. “You’re mine! She rasped, the jaw hangingcrooked, obviously broken. Blood poured from a wound on her forehead.“MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE!” Tom looked at her, unable to believe that she was still moving. There was a sudden pounding on a door downstairs, he didn’t knowwhat it was, but it was loud and pulsing. “MINE!” He looked at her. “No, Mother. I’m not.” The pain. <I>Pleaseoh please. </I>Tom shut the closet door, pulling it gently with his fingers; itclosed with a faint, but distinct click. He leaned back on the floor, looking up at the chair, looking at hisangel seated there, battle scarred, but heavenly. Mother’s broken hands pounded against the door, her screamsbecoming unintelligible, moist slurs. “Trisha?” “Stay with me, Tom…Please don’t die, oh please don’t die.”It was Trisha. Wasn’t it?“Trisha?”
“Tom! Hold on! Hold on, Tom, you gotta stay with me.” <I>Trisha?</I>The world faded into cold oblivion. His angel was staring at himuntil she faded slowly into black. <I>Before…</I>THE BENCH was one of the nicer things in the yard of the church. Itwas placed under a large oak tree that forever stretched its longarms into the sky. It was there that Tom had proposed. It was therethat Trisha said yes.—<I>Youthink it’s God’s will for us to be together?</I>Trisha was staring at him, always with questions like that; she wouldlook at him to gauge his expression when he responded. —<I>Morethan I’ve ever known anything.</I>She smiled, a childish, assured and overjoyed smile. —<I>Okay.</I><I>After…</I> THE HOSPITAL room was nothing like that bench. It was loud, and itwas cold. The only thing like the bench in that tiny hospital roomwas that he had Trisha next to him, who was hooked up to an IV andstaring at him with the faintest traces of a smile on her face. Tom looked at her, hooked up to numerous machines himself; unsure ofwhat to think or do, all he could do was look at Trisha’s smilingface, which was fine with him. More than fine.
Her hand was clasped tightly in his, forming a bridge between theirhospital beds. The thin sheets and flimsy gowns did little to keepthem warm, but their palms were warm in each other’s grasp. Across Trisha’s wrist was a dark scar mark where she had been tieddown; the wrists were circled around with red. It made him wish ithad not happened to her, but he thought they were fine on her. Theywould fade in time, but it did nothing to take away from her beauty.Her beauty was in her spirit, not her wrists. The neighbor had popped in on them a few times; he had been poundingon the door when Tom had passed out. Heard some racket and came overto check things out, make sure they were okay. He called the policewhen Trisha began to scream and they found Mother dead in front ofthe closet after following a ghastly trail of blood. She had died ofhead trauma from her fall down the stairs. They couldn’t explainhow she made it to the closet, and Tom was glad that they hadn’ttried, he had nightmares about it enough.They had been there for days. Trisha had joked about it being themost time they had spent together yet, even when her parents werethere, which was most of the time with the rare exceptions of amoment here and there. It was one of those moments.She had suffered severe malnutrition and dehydration. Mother onlytook her out at night to the bathroom and didn’t seem to feed hermuch aside from Lance snack crackers and cheap, packaged lunchmeat.It would be a bit before they recovered. Tom couldn’t wait. He was staring at him and he was staring at her, pleased to just benear each other. He smiled and asked, “Trisha?” “Yeah?” She responded. “Do you think it’s God’s will for us to be together?”People rushed by in the hallway outside, the thunderclaps and fainttaps of hundreds of footsteps echoing in the sterile and chilledcorridors.
Her smile was the same girlish, trusting smile. “More than I’veever known anything.” She scanned his face carefully with her wide,glowing eyes. He nodded and squeezed her hand. “Okay.” Aboutthe Author: Michael Wright lives in Alabama and hasbeen writing since his mid-teen years. He enjoys playing guitar,reading, writing, coffee, sushi, Christian theology and a good story.Read more stories at<U>http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/michaelwright92</U>Ifyou enjoyed <I>Mother Dearest</I>, be sure to check out <I>Merchandise</I>,another story available on Smashwords.com.
Her smile was the same girlish, trusting smile. “More than I’veever known anything.” She scanned his face carefully with her wide,glowing eyes. He nodded and squeezed her hand. “Okay.” Aboutthe Author: Michael Wright lives in Alabama and hasbeen writing since his mid-teen years. He enjoys playing guitar,reading, writing, coffee, sushi, Christian theology and a good story.Read more stories at<U>http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/michaelwright92</U>Ifyou enjoyed <I>Mother Dearest</I>, be sure to check out <I>Merchandise</I>,another story available on Smashwords.com.